O LE
LUPE, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find:
In The Bookman for September, in a manner most unkind,
There appears a half-page picture, makes me think
I’ve lost my mind.

They have reproduced a window,—Doxey’s
window,—(I dare say
In your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty
times a day,)

5

As "A
Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay."

There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine
we all adore,
And a little book of verses with its betters by
the score,
With three faces on the cover I believe I’ve
seen before.

Well, here’s matter for reflection, makes
me wonder where I am.

10

Here
is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the
black lamb.
I was never out of Boston; all that I can say is,
"Damn!"

Who could think, in two short summers we should
cause so much remark,
With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the
public hark,
When I soloed on The Chap-Book, and you answered
with The Lark!

15

Do young people take much pleasure when they read
that sort of thing?
"Well, they buy it," answered Doxey, "and
I take what it will bring.
Publishers may dread extinction—not with such
fads on the string.

"There is always sale for something, and
demand for what is new.
These young men who are so restless, and have
nothing else to do,

20

Like
to think there is ‘a movement,’ just
to keep themselves in view.

"There is nothing in Decadence but the magic
of a name.
People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and
hint a shame;
And all that is good for business, helps to boom
my little game."

But when I sit down to reason, think to stand
upon my nerve,

25

Meditate
on portly leisure with a balance in reserve,
In he comes with his "Decadence!" like
a fly in my preserve.

I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from
now,
Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken
toy somehow,
All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with
your "Purple Cow."

30

But I will return some morning, though I know it
will be hard,
To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some
minor bard,
Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures
we discard.

I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when
his back is turned,
"Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey
spent what Doxey earned;

35

Poems
doubtless are immortal, where a poem can be discerned!"

How his face will go to ashes, when he feels
his empty purse!
How he’ll wish his vogue were greater; plume
himself it is no worse;
Then go bother the dear public with his puny little
verse!

Don’t I know how he will pose it; patronize
our larger time;

40

"Poor
old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they
made to rhyme!"
Just let me have half an hour with that nincompoop
sublime!

I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost
him like a fear;
When he least expects my presence, I’ll
be mumbling in his ear,
"O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in
Boston here.

45

"Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never
have been told
Of the Larks we used to publish, and the Chap-Books
that we sold?
Where are all our first editions?" I feel damp
and full of mould.